may 25, 1999

safed, israel

the next day i’m on my own again. i take the bus from haifa to safed, one of the

four holy cities in israel. just like the three other holy cities which are

connected with a specific element: hebron – earth, tiberius – water, and

jerusalem – fire (naturally), sfat is connected with air. perched high up in the

eastern mountains of the galilee, overlooking the hula valley, on the opposite

side of the golan heights, svat (yet another city of multiple spellings) is home

to the jewish mystics, or “tzaddiks”. descendants of the chasidic and lubavitch

jews of eastern europe, these long robed and ultra-religious men have created a

very rarefied community based on prayer, solitude, and devotion. one can feel it

in the air. at least i could. a special breathless purity. a piety. magic.

worship. people who live in sefed believe the “messiah” (savior) will come first

to these hills. they also believe that strange, unpredictable, mystical meetings

and events occur in the forests, in the winding streets, in the holy air of

zvat. meetings and events of synchronicity. one is supposed to be able to go to

the grave of a certain high rebbe or tzaddik, ask for his help, and be able to

find one’s husband – or wife. the enchantment, the spell, the energy of this

place is unique in all of israel. a little like big sur in california. pine

forests growing out of the desert below. artists. lovers. alternative cultures.

a fine place to visit – with a compelling siren call to come back and stay.

i get off the bus and walk towards the center of the old city, where both the

religious and the artists quarters lie. i go for the history first, and wander

into a visitor center that appears amidst a tangled maze of narrow pedestrian

streets, small shops and old synagogues. i meet a dark-haired, english-speaking

girl there, who sets me up on the off-line computer to give me the condensed

cyber history of this very dense, un-cyber town. it turns out she is just a

visitor like me, and we decide to walk through the small historical quarter

together. hannah is from brooklyn, and it doesn’t take me very long to discover

that she is a nouveau religious pilgrim in search of the holy grail here in

tzvat. we wander into several of the uniform, but nonetheless beautiful, one

room, blue and white painted synagogues. the pulpits sit spanish style, in the

middle of the rooms, surrounded by old books, benches for worship, prayer

shawls, and torah scrolls. i realize that prayer and worship occur in the most

modest of rooms; that not all believers and communities are able to build mighty

stone and stained glass temples, mosques, or churches of worship to their

omnipotent, awe-inspiring gods. that here in these old wooden rooms of sfvat, in

the concrete, monotone rooms of modern-day hebron, in the simple christian

churches of jesus’ old galilee, that people came – and come – together – of

necessity – because it is the function and importance of prayer itself that

transform a simple room into one of worship. that no amount of money, art, or

social status can replace the power of a community or individual in communion

with its source of inspiration. that no amount of suppression, intolerance, or

destruction can keep these rooms and the devotions spoken, or silently made

here, from rebirthing, rebuilding, or remembering themselves.

hannah and i walk down the steep slope of the winding old city and come out to

the open crest that overlooks the western outskirts of the city, the towering

mountains in the distance, and the sprawling graveyard in between. we breathe in

the fresh air, and pass the ritual bath, or mikveh, where men only are allowed

to clean, wash, and purify themselves for religious devotion. there are

thousands of graves dappled like monotone brush stokes in a pointillist

painting, each representing the lifetime of worship of a reverent tzaddik

scholar. hannah is awestruck, not only with the sprawl of the graveyard, but

with the religious fervor she feels coursing through her. i am standing there

right next to her and i feel nothing. she starts into her “isn’t judaism the

greatest of all the religions. can’t you just feel the entire history of our

race standing here on this holy ground?” i look at her and see the light in her

eyes. i reluctantly say something like, “well, no, i think all religions are

more or less the same. jews, christians, and muslims all believe in the same

god, but fight and slaughter each other in his name. it just doesn’t make any

sense to me…” she looks at me, the light flickering in her eyes a bit. “what

do you mean? what kind of jew are you?” “well”, i say, “i’m sort of a reluctant

jew. as a kid, i didn’t have a very good… or very positive religious

upbringing.” “but can’t you just feel it in the air?” she says. “there is so

much love and piousness here.” i continue to dampen hannah’s passion with my

self-doubting agnostic ways, at least feeling guilty doing so, guilt being one

of the few things i learned well from my jewish forefathers.

is it simply a matter of education, who teaches you about god? the way you carry

it through life? i remember asking my mother about god. i was lying on her bed;

she was doing something to herself in the mirror over her dresser. “ma, where

does god live?” “well, he’s everywhere,” she said. “what do you mean?” “well i

don’t believe that god is a person, but he’s a spirit that lives everywhere in

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nature.” “like in the trees?” “yes,” she said without hesitation. like in the

dirt?” “yes”, she said again. “like in the garbage cans?” “yes,” she said again

smiling. “god can’t live in a garbage can,” i insisted, shocked with her

irreverence. “why not?” she said gently. “i don’t know. he just can’t!” silence.

“he does?” Silence. “really?” then my mother looked away from the mirror for the

first time and came a little closer to me. she said, “everyone believes

something different about god. i believe his spirit is everywhere, wherever you

want it to be.” pause. “you have to decide for yourself.” i looked back at her.

that was all. i don’t remember saying anything else. i just remember… garbage

cans!

i wonder where hannah grew up and who taught her what about god. i wonder who

teaches their children that to kill in the name of god is a great and sacred

act? i wonder why i stand on the same “holy” ground as these jews, christians,

and muslims and feel nothing for god. hannah and i do not descend into the

graveyard. i buy her a lemonade from a local arab vendor, and we walk back to

the crossroads of the artists’ quarter in svat. hannah seems to have lost

interest in me. we say our pleasant goodbyes. we are on different paths. she

makes a left, walking up the cobblestone street, back into the religious quarter

and her search for meaning. i make a right, walking down the asphalt road,

looking for a garbage can to throw my empty bottle into.

the artists’ quarter winds through the old arab section of the city. in fact,

the central gallery is now housed in a former mosque. i walk around, enter the

mosque, wander some more. the thin air is the same as across the way, up the

cobblestone path, but somehow it feels different. it is a lot more familiar to

me here, a lot more profane, even with the signs in hebrew, even knowing that

bands of early christians hid out in these same hills above the sea of galilee,

that muslim and jewish blood was spilled defending these same stone homes but

now quiet streets.

a brightly colored yard calls my attention. i look through the black wrought

iron fence, past the green stalks and red splashes of flowers, and i see a

large, fanciful figure, dressed in a long black jacket or robe, over a white

button down shirt. he is wearing the typically black hasidic hat with the

twisted pais crawling down below his ears, but where you would expect him to be

carrying the two stone tablets of the ten commandments in his outstretched arms,

he is carrying two large hamburgers. he is “mcmoses”, a paper mache creation by

artist, mike leaf. i walk in the yard. there, around the gurgling fountain in

the central courtyard of this old Arab home, is a wacky garden full of vibrant

mediterranean foliage and irreverent creatures of paper mache: “bob dylan, the

messiah, and the lubavitch rebbe”. “jesus christ and jerry garcia” (of the

grateful dead). like wow! who is this guy who made these things? so child-like

and conceptual at the same time. i think i’ll have to track him down.

i see a woman in a long black skirt watering the yard. i call out to her,

introduce myself, and ask her about this mike leaf. he turns out to be her

husband for almost thirty years. she calls him down from his studio (although i

insist that she doesn’t), and soon we are all sitting around the courtyard

having mint nana tea, right from the garden. wild-eyed mr. leaf is a

jesus-bearded, tie-dyed, hippie-like sixty-something ex-patriot brit-Jew who has

been living in svat on and off for over 30 years and has had many shows of his

work all over the world. i would like to buy a piece, but i can’t see myself

carrying a three foot paper mache figure of bob dylan around with me for the

next month and a half.

an eccentric, scruffily-bearded, mostly silent neighbor appears in the yard and

very inadvertently, starts absorbing the conversation – and me. his name is

moshe tzipper, known to his friends simply as “tzipper”, and in about five

minutes he has quickly arranged a “shiddach” for me – on his cell phone. a

shiddach is a match – between a man and a woman – as in wedding match. it is a

traditional middle eastern custom popular amongst both arabs and jews, but the

yiddish word, “shiddach”, is especially popular and revered amongst eastern

european jews living in the “old country”. “but i’m not looking for anyone,

tzipper,” i protest. “vat, you’re fifty years old and you’re not married?” “so

what’s wrong with that?” “nothing. nothing,” he says in his sing song english,

“but vat do you have to lose? give a try.” “i don’t like jewish woman,” i say,

knowing this will wreak havoc with his brain chemistry. “so, you don’t,” he

says, very laid back and zen like, “trust me, i have a feeling. she’s very

nice.” and he hands me the phone.

oy. what have i got myself into? i’m up in the high holy air of tzvat, on this

out-of-place cell phone speaking to a strange fifty year old jewish american

religious woman living in a tent above the hills of nazareth and the sea of

galilee. where strange meetings of synchronicity, meaning, and permanence are

everyday occurrences. with this zen beat maynard g. krebs (from tv’s “dobie

gillis” show) telling me “he has a feeling” and that i should just be

spontaneous and hitchhike to her tent and spend the night with her – sight

unseen. “uh, tzipper,” i say, forcibly handing the phone back to him, “i really

appreciate your generosity and your impulsive intuitive inspiration, and i’d

really like to meet this woman, what’s her name — roberta — she sounds really

cool– but guess what — my bus — which i already have the ticket for — is

leaving in about half an hour — and i’m expected back in jerusalem – tonight –

so – why don’t i just take a rain check – and come back to svat – a very cool

city which i really like very much – another time.” “you vill?” he says with a

twinge of skepticism and disappointment. “yes, i will,” i say more prophetically

than i know at the time. “okay,” he says smiling, “you will come to mitzpeh

amuka and visit us in the forrest.” “okay,” i agree, taking my leave of the

leafs and my new-found spiritual and marital guru moshe tzipper, “i’ll be back.”

to be continued…

art from http://www.thestudioinoldjaffa.com/greetings.html

photos were collected from various file pages on the web.
If anyone objects or would like a credit, please contact Rebop
 

Middle East, 1999, chapter 10, the tzaddiks of svat
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